The Ghost and Sam Winchester
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Dean vanishes and returns as a spirit. Sam doesn't take it well.


_Previously appeared in _Of Dreams & Schemes 25 _(2010), from Of Dreams & Schemes Press_

**The Ghost and Sam Winchester**  
K Hanna Korossy

_ "You know what I feel like having for lunch when we get out of here?"_

Dean's tone held all the amusement of a setup for a punch line, not that Sam hadn't seen that coming from a mile away. Ever since they'd started searching the massive cornfield, his brother had been cracking one joke after another, starting with every _Children of the Corn_ reference he could think of before moving on to bad puns. "Popcorn?" Sam said wearily. "Corn on the cob? Corn Pops?"

_"Corned Beef Sandwich,"_ Dean crowed over the phone.

Sam groaned. "I'm hanging up now, dude."

_ "Wait, I'm just about to reach a corn-er—"_

"I'll call back in thirty," Sam said squelchingly and clicked his phone off, sliding it into his pocket. He shook his head, mouth twitching a little. Okay, so maybe it was a little funny. But he knew why Dean had suddenly turned into a joke machine—besides already having the sense of humor of a five-year-old—and that wasn't funny at all.

They were doing a grid search of two hundred acres of Iowa cornfield because things kept dying in it. First it had been a bunch of dead crows: no great loss there. Then a cow that had strayed into the field had bought it. The kicker had been the farmer's toddler. The little boy had wandered just a few feet into the field while playing one afternoon. His body had turned up two days later.

The weird part, the part that had drawn the Winchesters instead of the FDA or CDC or any other government acronym, had been the cause of death in the little boy's case: exhaustion. Some further digging had turned up that the cow had similar symptoms, and Bessie had only been gone on less than four days. Something was draining the energy from living things in Farmer Cheedle's cornfield, and the Winchesters were there to stop it.

Sam sighed, gaze moving between his Treo's GPS and the silent EMF he held in his other hand, before it returned to the relentlessly tall stalks of corn surrounding him. He never liked splitting up. Dean was totally with him on that one, but there was no way they were searching twenty acres at a time of almost zero visibility without spreading out to cover more ground. They'd divided up the field into grids so they knew approximately where the other was at all times, and called in every thirty to check up. Otherwise, Dean's newest puns notwithstanding, they were on their own…

…in what appeared to be a totally normal, boring field of corn that grew even taller than Sam. Maybe _that_ was the freaky part. What did the farmer fertilize his soil with, anyway, Miracle Gro? Maybe Soylent Green was _people_, and Sam smirked at the thought. He'd have to share that one with Dean the next time he called.

Speaking of which… He was a few minutes early, but the unending walls of cornstalks was numbing his mind, and even Dean's corny jokes—_oh, man, he's rubbing off on me_—would be a welcome diversion. Sam thumbed the speed dial for his brother and waited.

It rang a few times before reaching voicemail. _"This is Dean Winchester. If this is an emergency, leave a—" _

Sam frowned, coming to a stop on a square of land that looked just like every other he'd tramped through over the last hour. He redialed, eyes pinching as the phone rang and went to voicemail again.

_"This is Dean—"_

He cut the recording off agitatedly. This wasn't good. They were in a field that sucked the life right out of people, and Dean had just gone silent. It made sense to assume the worst.

Sam consulted his Treo. Okay, so he was in the southwest corner of the field. Dean had taken the car around to the opposite corner to start looking, using a compass in lieu of Sam's PDA as a guide. That should put him somewhere about…there, Sam noted. Sure, only a couple of miles away through dense corn. Piece of cake.

Resolutely, he started shoving his way through the stalks aside without any further concern about damaging the crop, EMF on but tucked into his pocket. He tried the phone again every five minutes, chanting encouragement under his breath for Dean to pick it up. Sam would even settle for a stream of groan-worthy jokes if Dean would just be okay and answer his phone and talk to him.

But he never did.

00000

The only thing worse than searching an endless field of corn during the day was doing it at night.

That didn't deter Sam, who'd finally reached the Impala around dusk and grabbed a flashlight along with some heavier artillery. But searching by Maglite was slow going, the EMF meter was staying stubbornly silent, and Sam wasn't even sure if he was in the right area. Dean could've moved off to check something, could've been snatched and taken somewhere else, could even be lying a few feet away and Sam wouldn't know it. There was nothing to do but keep going, but every step mounted Sam's frustration higher.

And his fear. Because if he couldn't find Dean…or if he found Dean but it was too late…

Sam brushed at his eyes angrily. He'd lost Jess earlier that year, had only seen Dad briefly before the old man took off on them again. He wasn't losing his last bit of family to a friggin' bunch of plants. No way.

He kept looking.

His phone's battery was dying. The Maglite had dimmed since he began his search. His feet ached in his sneakers and his shoulders throbbed with angry tension. The sun was coming up, and there was still no Dean. Sam hated it but he had to stop. Just for a little bit, just to go back to the room and regroup. He could try to look up the GPS chip in Dean's phone, although he had a feeling it wouldn't narrow the area down to anything smaller than the square acreage he was already searching. Maybe he could call Pastor Jim and ask the man to keep trying Dean's phone to spare Sam's battery. A few extra prayers wouldn't hurt, either. A quick meal and some caffeine would help his flagging energy—lost the normal way, by hiking through a cornfield for close to fifteen hours now, as well as a heckuva lot of anxiety—and some moleskin would ease the burgeoning blisters. Then he'd be back to continue the search. It wasn't like leaving Dean there. Really.

Or so Sam told himself, over and over, on the drive back to the motel room they'd gotten the morning before.

It worked—sorta—until he actually walked into the room. The first thing his eyes fell upon, however, was Dean's unmade bed, the duffel sitting amidst a pile of dirty laundry just as his brother had left it earlier. It sunk in then with a cold heaviness: he'd come back alone. Dean was out there, in trouble, maybe even already gone, and Sam had come back to their room alone.

He sank onto Dean's bed with a low groan, dropping his throbbing head into his hands, and tried to suck it up, imagining Dean giving him grief for being an emo girl.

Except, Dean never made fun of him when he was upset. He'd only shown concern during the worst of Sam's grief over Jess, patience with his longing to find their Dad, encouragement in Sam's determination to end the demon that had killed his girl. He'd probably be laying a hand on Sam's shoulder now, telling him—

"It's okay, dude. You did everything you could."

Sam's head shot up, eyes wide and probably as freaked out as he felt.

Because Dean was standing there next to him, hand still on his shoulder. But his touch was cold, freezing even through the several layers Sam wore, and even as he stared in disbelief at his brother, Dean wavered, jolted back into place.

Oh, God, no. Sam stretched out a shaking hand, praying he'd feel flannel and leather and muscle. He was horrifiedly unsurprised when his hand sank inches into his brother's torso instead.

He snatched it back with a gasp, breath quickening. "Dean…God…"

Dean looked unfazed at suddenly being incorporeal, but sadness still passed over his features. "Sam, hey, it's all right, it's—"

"No, no, no. You are not dead. This is something else, an-an OBE, or some kind of-of projection." Sam scrambled to his feet, his voice was cracking on the words, shrilly insistent. Hysteria, the clinical part of his brain provided, and he couldn't care less. "You're not—"

"Hey, calm down, listen to me, okay? Focus, Sam. This isn't how—" He broke off with a growl, waving a hand, then dropped…somehow…into a chair by the bed.

Sam sank back down onto the bed to face him. Dean was no longer touching him, thank God. The cold had settled into the bones of Sam's shoulder, and he didn't want any more reminder of Dean being a ghost than the occasional _waver-snap_ of his brother's form.

Dean pulled at his mouth a moment, a gesture so familiar, it made Sam's eyes sting, then leaned forward. "Sammy, it's okay." It was his calming voice, the one that did make everything seem all right, even when it was clearly shot to Hell. "I'm not…in pain or anything. But this isn't just an Out-of-Body field trip—I'm pretty sure the rest of me's taking a dirt nap somewhere."

"Dean," Sam stammered brokenly.

"Just listen to me, okay? I'm sorry, Sam, it just kinda…happened. But I'm okay. And you're gonna be, too."

Sam shook his head in mute denial, mouth stubbornly set. He felt about four again, refusing his big brother's comfort that it was okay that they didn't have a mommy.

"Yeah, you are, kiddo. You're a lot stronger than you think. You learned a lot this year—you can do this. Go find Dad and stick with him—you'll be okay."

He was crying now, his neck wet with tears that had rolled down to soak the edge of his t-shirt. He could see the answering glimmer in Dean's eyes, and the thought that it wasn't real, that Dean was just some spirit stopping here on his way to the beyond, hurt like a knife to the heart. "Dean, please," he whispered, not sure what he was even asking for. _Don't be dead? Make it better? Don't go away?_

Dean gave him a soft look, then crooked his chin at the bed. "You're beat, dude—lie down for a while, okay? You need some sleep, Sam."

He hated the thought of leaving Dean—even if he couldn't do anything more for his brother—out there in some field. But the opening burst of grief had left him even more exhausted, unable to process the thought of Dean being _gone_. There wasn't any rush anymore, was there? No one left to go back for. No one to save.

No one to save him.

Sam's face crumpled again.

"Shh, it's okay." He couldn't feel the cold as Dean fruitlessly pulled at his feet, but Sam lifted them onto the bed. He didn't feel the icy grip that tried to grasp the blankets, not even when he grabbed them himself and wrapped his body up in them. Nor did he feel the chill penetrate his hair as a light touch sifted through the strands.

His sinking eyes shot open again. "Dean—"

"I'll stay as long as I can, Sammy. Go to sleep."

Against his every instinct—except the one that had always listened to his big brother—Sam obeyed.

00000

Dying was rough.

Dean had tasted it a few times over the years, most recently when he'd managed to electrocute himself and fatally damage his heart. Sam had saved his bacon that time, too, at a cost Dean would never have agreed to but was pretty sure Sam would have paid even had he known how much it was beforehand. It was always like that with them: your brother came first, before yourself, before anyone.

Which was what made death so tough. Not because it was scary or the end or painful. But because he knew what he was leaving his little brother to live with.

Dean sat in a chair that felt as immaterial under him as he apparently was to it, and watched over his sleeping brother with hands clasped and mind full of misgivings. He'd kinda figured he might give his life one day to defeat the enemy that had cursed their family, or maybe to save his dad or his brother. But to go out now, when the demon was still out there, their dad was in hiding, and Sam was already struggling with freaky abilities and a dead girlfriend and a shrinking family? There was no peace in a death like that.

Dean rubbed at his eyes, surprised he could still feel tired, and tried to figure this out.

He couldn't remember what had happened. One minute he'd been pushing through a jungle of corn, the next he was popping into the motel room next to a Sam who looked like he was falling apart. And that was before he'd caught sight of his transparent brother.

This was so screwed, Dean groaned, shoving a hand back through his hair. Why was he even there? He was pretty sure he was dead, no body pulling him back like a tether, no sense of being torn in two. And he knew more than most that spirits were usually born of unfinished business. If Dean didn't have unfinished business, he didn't know who did. But…wasn't he supposed to feel something? See a light…or flames? Feel light or peaceful or some crap like that? Meet a reaper or see dead people, for God's sake? Not just…be stuck in this limbo of seeing Sam suffer and not being able to do anything about it. What good did that do?

Dean wasn't even sure what was worse anymore, hanging around so Sam wasn't completely alone, or giving him closure and letting him move on. Dean snorted softly; yeah, right. Because their family was so good at moving on. Maybe if they could find Dad, make sure Sammy wasn't—

Sam moaned softly in his dreams, forehead pinched as he turned his head on the pillow. Well, that hadn't taken long. Thank God he hadn't seen how Dean had died, but still. The brain was clever, Gigantor's more than most: it would have no trouble conjuring up images of Dean buying it in a lot of creative ways. He lifted a hand to try to still the troubled dreams…only to let it fall again. Right, because bone-chilling cold was so reassuring. Dean concentrated on moving a corner of the blanket instead. No dice.

Sam grimaced, a whine escaping his throat as he pulled his knees up under the covers. His eyes moved rapidly under his eyelids.

Crap. This wasn't a nightmare, Dean suddenly realized. That was physical pain lining Sam's face, wrapping his hands into fists. He was having a vision.

Dean winced and crouched down next to the bed. "I'm right here, Sam. It'll be over in a minute, just hang in there." Sam's hand curled and uncurled, finally finding the blanket's edge, to Dean's relief. "Hang on," he coached.

Sam made another soft sound of pain, then his eyes fluttered and he sagged into the bedding.

Dean took a breath, not stopping to think why and what he was filling with air if he was dead. "Sam?"

Sam's eyes slitted, looking a little drugged, as he had the few other times Dean had seen him right after a vision. Then they opened wide, glassy but aware. He grabbed for Dean, not even seeming to notice as Dean easily dodged his grasp. "Dad! Dean, Dad's in danger."

The fear he'd felt before as he'd watched his brother try to cope with the idea of his death? That was nothing compared to the terror that settled in him now. Dean straightened up. "What did you see, Sam?" he barked.

"He was…" Sam pushed himself up on cooked-noodle arms, Dean again starting to move to help him before he caught himself. "He was in the woods—I saw a sign. Jericho Forest. Someone shot him. I think it was a hunter."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "A hunter, like…?"

Sam shook his head. "He had a day-glo jacket on. I think it was just a regular hunting accident."

Dean licked his lips. "Okay. Okay, so we can look up where that is and go stop it. Was it day or night?"

Sam's eyes went out of focus a moment as he thought back. "Looked like dusk. Maybe dawn."

And it was about mid-morning now. Sam's visions were all of the future or in real time, never of the past—so far, anyway—which meant they probably still had hours. "Good. Go do your research thing and figure out where this place is. You've got about ten hours to get there."

Sam paused halfway out of the bed, turning back to Dean with fresh despair in his eyes. "Dean…you—"

He smiled sadly, trying for casual but knowing it came across more as resigned. "Dude, it's too late for me—we both know that. You can't help me, but you can help Dad. Go find him." He jerked his chin toward the laptop.

Sam's face twisted miserably. "Dean."

This time he made sure he looked nothing but encouraging. "It's okay, dude. Go save Dad. We'll figure the rest out after, okay?"

"You won't…?"

"Not sure it's up to me, but I'll stick with you as long as I can, I promise."

Sam still hesitated, knuckles white where they gripped the covers.

"Sam, we don't have time for this," Dean snapped.

That did the job. Sam started guiltily, then got up and headed over to the laptop.

Great, Dean thought with an internal sigh. Now he had two members of his family to worry about.

So far, being dead totally sucked.

00000

The good news was, Dean could ride in the car, even if he couldn't drive. Neither of them quite understood the mechanics, but they'd seen ghosts move furniture, throw things—and them—and ride trains and hitchhike, so it wasn't unexpected. Still, Sam was more grateful than he could say that Dean could come with him.

The bad news was obvious. Yeah, for a few seconds at a time Sam could almost forget something was wrong, Motorhead blaring on the radio, the car purring around them, Dean sitting beside him. But then Dean would do that weird shimmering thing, or Sam would catch a glimpse of the car door through him, and it would slam into him again: Dean was dead. This was just a shadow of his brother. And he didn't even know how long he'd have that.

At least this Dean pretended just as well as the real one that he didn't see Sam's tears.

Dean, meanwhile, was clearly just as unhappy. In part, Sam knew, because Sam was miserable, a state Dean had never tolerated well. But he was also scared for Dad, and frustrated at not being able to back Sam up in any real way on this, and Sam knew that for Dean, helplessness was a Hell of its own.

There wasn't much either of them could say to help the other, though, so the music filled the silence, and Sam clenched his jaw and kept driving.

Jericho Forest, it turned out, was two states away, about eight hours of driving. Which was cutting it a little close, but thank God it had been so near. Sam had tried calling his dad to warn him, but that was as successful as it ever was of course so they had to go make sure John was okay. _Sam_ had to go. Dean was just along for the ride and moral support.

Which was still so much better than being alone. Sam spent a considerable amount of the drive wondering if it would be easier if Dean stayed his ghostly partner indefinitely or if he just made a clean break. Considering Sam couldn't think about the latter without his throat closing up with tears, however, it wasn't much of a debate.

"There." Dean pointed out the sign, and Sam made the turn. The forest wasn't huge, relatively, about two square miles, but that was still plenty big considering he had nothing else to go by to find their dad in all that wilderness. Sam had tried running searches on his Treo as he drove for any kind of hunt that might have drawn their dad there, hoping to narrow their search area, but without success. Either John wasn't there on a case, or Sam sucked at researching while driving. Considering Dean's fingers passed right through the PDA, however, it was kinda all they had.

They hadn't been trained by John Winchester for nothing. It only took about five minutes to spot the hidden truck and pull up beside it. It was a start, and Dean pointed out as much as they got out of the car and Sam loaded up.

"Okay, so we know he went in from the west side. He's not gonna do that if he's heading over to that gully on the east or the ridge up north."

"I know," Sam said, shoving a few extra rounds for the Taurus into his pocket.

"You know Dad, he likes his spiral search. He would've headed clockwise—east—first before he curved down."

"Yup." They always took a cold iron blade on any hunt in a forest in case fairies were involved, although Sam didn't expect to be going after supernatural prey this time. Still, you always went in prepared, another thing their dad had taught them. The knife slid into a sheath on his belt.

"He wears his green jacket when he's in the woods—don't forget the first aid kit—so look for that."

"Dean," Sam said impatiently, slamming the Impala's trunk shut. They both cringed at the noise. "I know, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Dean agreed quietly, stepping out of the way.

Sam faltered. "Just…just be here, all right?"

Dean looked him in the eye, as solid as his promise. "Long as I can and even longer, little brother, I swear."

"Okay." Sam nodded. "Okay. Let's go."

There were…benefits to Dean being incorporeal, Sam soon realized. Like the fact that his brother made no sound going through the woods. Or that he could scout ahead without Sam being worried about his getting shot, too. The thought made him laugh unsteadily under his breath: nice. He couldn't worry about Dean anymore because Dean was...was—

"Sam." It was said low, because Dean's voice was still real.

He cleared his mind of everything but the mission and crept forward, peering through foliage at what Dean was indicating.

The hunter was maybe thirty, his camo pants and jacket rendered moot by the reflective orange vest he wore. He handled his rifle with experienced comfort, but even as Sam watched, he raised a hand and wiped his brow wearily. Sick? Or tired? Enough to affect his vision or his judgment, maybe.

"It's him," Sam confirmed quietly.

"Awesome. So, uh, we could take him out…" As he caught sight of Sam's glare, Dean added defensively, "I didn't mean permanently!" Sam didn't relent. Dean breathed out and waved a hand. "Okay, fine, Boy Scout. Guess we'll just have to stick with him then until he comes across Dad."

Sam nodded, his eyes glued now to the hunter. As the man started moving, Sam trailed him, careful where he stepped, what he brushed by.

"Sam," Dean suddenly breathed next to him, but Sam had already seen it. Another figure moving in the dense forest about thirty feet to their left. It was barely a silhouette, and Sam wouldn't even have been sure if it was man or beast if he hadn't been following that form for most of his life.

The young hunter had caught sight of the movement, too, however. Before Sam could do more than shift his gaze, the rifle was already at the man's shoulder, carefully aiming. At John.

He didn't think, didn't really even have time to do anything else short of shooting the hunter, which wasn't an option. Sam just cried out. "No!"

His dad melted back into the trees as silently and easily as he'd appeared, anxious as always to avoid other people when on a hunt.

The hunter jerked around, his rifle still aimed, and squeezed the trigger in pure reflex.

Sam felt the explosion of pain in his left temple, his vision whiting out with agony.

Dean yelled something, maybe his name.

And Sam never even felt the ground hit.

00000

He took it back. There were no flames because _this _was Hell.

Sam had gone down like a sack of bricks and didn't move. He'd landed face down, a pool of blood quickly trickling onto the leaves below him. Dean couldn't even tell if he was breathing.

"Sam! Sam, wake up. Talk to me. Please." Dean tried to feel for a pulse, turn him, anything, but his fingers passed through Sam's flesh with a chill that seemed to penetrate his own heart. He wasn't even sure if Sam was bleeding or if gravity was draining the head wound. He didn't know if Sam was _alive_.

And that was so very, very much more terrifying than being dead himself.

His yells having elicited no response, Dean reared up at the hunter instead. The guy was still standing where he'd been when he'd fired, his rifle now hanging from his hand, his face white and slack. He knew what he'd done, so why wasn't he doing anything to fix it? "Hey! Elmer Fudd. Get over here and help me."

The hunter just blinked.

Dean bolted to his feet with a sneer and shot across the expanse of forest between them. "Hey! I said go help him, moron—you shot him! Come here and…"

The guy never flinched, never registered his approach, didn't even react to Dean yelling and waving in his face.

"Great," Dean realized, throwing up his hands. "You can't see me. Super. Sam should've just taken you out at the start like I said."

The hunter abruptly turned and ran off.

Dean yelled several choice curses, then wheeled around. Sam still hadn't moved. If he was…dying, he needed first aid, maybe CPR. Dean needed somebody living, right now.

Dad.

He took off running. At least there was no need to dodge trees; it felt a little strange running through them, but Dean couldn't care less about that. He was racing for Sam's life, and wasn't even winded when he suddenly broke through a bunch of bushes and almost ran into—through—John Winchester.

As always, his dad momentarily struck him with awe. The beard made him look older, more formidable, but Dean's memories would have easily provided anyway the aura of invulnerability and wisdom he'd always seen around his dad. There was nothing John Winchester couldn't fix, nothing he didn't know.

And, God, Dean needed him now.

"Dad," he skidded to a stop in front of the older man, "Dad, it's Sammy. That guy shot him and I can't…I can't tell if he's breathing. Come on, he needs—"

John frowned, shifting his grip a little more firmly on the shotgun he held. His eyes narrowed, and he peered through the bush, searching for his quarry.

Staring right through Dean.

Dean felt his throat close. Corporeal, living or not, this friggin' _hurt_. "Dad, please," he begged, trying to grab his father but only passing through John's arm. His dad didn't even pause. "Sammy needs you. I need you. I can't help him—_please._"

"I'm gonna find you, you son of a bitch," John swore under his breath. But the menacing tone was clear: it was a threat meant for his prey, not a promise to his sons. He slunk silently forward, away from Dean, from where Sam lay.

Dean had failed. He'd failed John in his orders to keep Sam safe, he'd failed Sam in not being able to do so. Hadn't even been able to save himself, and Dean choked on a bitter laugh. In protecting one family member, he'd end up losing another, and how fair was that?

He drank in the sight of his father one more time—probably the last time—whispering a few words John wouldn't hear anyway, then, "Goodbye, Dad." Dean turned away heavily and headed back to Sam. Where else did he have to go? He didn't even exist for any other.

Sam was lying exactly where Dean had left him. There was a small puddle of red saturating the forest floor around him now, but at least it didn't seem to be getting any bigger. Dean sank to his knees beside it, beside Sam, and lay a hand on the dark hair.

"I tried, Sammy, I did. But I can't fix this. I don't know how to…" He trailed off, wiping at his face. Huh, apparently ghosts could cry—who knew? "Seems like you're the only one who can hear me. Figures, huh? I mean, not like anyone else ever listened to me. God knows Dad…" Dean shook his head. "Just, if you're checking out, maybe you can come join me? Pull a _Jedi_, like when Anakin shows up all glowy with Yoda and Obi-Wan? What do you think, the Winchester brothers ride again, only, you know, invisible and insubstantial." His small smile faded. "Sammy, come on, don't leave me like this…"

At first he thought he imagined it, the twitch was so small. Dean rubbed his eyes clear and stared.

A moment later, Sam's hand definitely flopped. A quiet groan broke the quiet.

Dean blinked, bending down almost to the forest floor to Sam's eye level. "Sam? Sammy? That's it, dude, wake up and talk to me. Gettin' tired of hearing my own voice here."

Sam's head made an attempt to rise, only to fall back to the ground with a grunt. Still, he turned his face a little more toward Dean, eyes scrunching. "Dee—"

"I'm right here, man, open your eyes. Sam! Open your eyes."

It took effort, and another few attempts at moving a body that clearly wasn't quite working right. But finally Sam's murky brown eyes, pupils a little too wide and glazed, were trying to focus on Dean. "Wha—?"

"You saved Dad but got yourself shot instead, genius." Dean itched to help Sam's sluggish movements, but even a brush of his hand over his brother's skin made Sam shiver so he held back. "Can you turn over for me?"

It took some effort and caused enough pain to squeeze an involuntary tear from Sam's eye and small sounds from his throat, but he finally slumped over onto his back, hand rising to his head.

"Don't touch, Sam. Let me look." His brother's temple was muddy and plastered with forest debris, but peering close, Dean could see the groove the bullet had gouged in the skin and bone underneath. It wasn't deep enough to penetrate skull, but he could just imagine the killer headache. "It's not too bad," Dean soothed. "Just creased that thick head of yours. Get your handkerchief out and put some pressure on it, right here." His hand hovered over the gash.

Sam obeyed instinctively but was still blinking at him. Even as Dean tried to give him a smile, however, the dawning look of horror on his brother's face killed it. "Dean, you're… You couldn't… You're really…"

"Wanna finish one of those sentences?" Dean teased, but it was weak; he knew what Sam was realizing. It was one thing to know something in your head. It was another to have stark proof hammered home. Sam would know that if Dean would've been able to do anything at all, it would be with Sam lying bleeding and unconscious on the ground.

He really couldn't touch Sam. He couldn't come back. He was gone.

Dean read every thought as it passed through Sam's face, and he tried not to let his own understanding show. "I'm still here, Sam," he said quietly.

Sam's head rolled, just a little, against the forest floor, his hair picking up leaves. "No. You're not." And he closed his eyes and turned away, his free hand coming up to cover his face.

Dean sank down next to him, jaw locked and eyes dull, feeling just as helpless as before even as Sam lived and breathed, and mourned, beside him.

00000

His head hurt so badly, it made him want to ram an ice pick through his eye.

His heart hurt worse.

Dean didn't make a sound next to him, but Sam knew he was there. Ghost or not, Dean still registered on Sam's sibling radar as a constant steady presence, staying close enough that Sam could feel him but not close enough to inadvertently remind him that he had no body heat—or body—left.

That more than anything finally prompted Sam to unwelcome movement. Maybe he couldn't do anything to save Dean now, but at least he could retrieve his body. And…maybe burn it on a hunter's pyre, although he couldn't contemplate right now getting rid of even a spectral Dean. Later…he'd worry about it later. Like, after he figured out how to get vertical again.

"You sure you should be getting up?" Dean's voice sounded neutral and calm, even if Sam knew he was anything but. He had to be going crazy, impotent in his ephemerality, but he was keeping it together for Sam. Maybe for himself, too.

"Gotta go," Sam gritted back. He'd managed to turn onto his side and get an arm under him. Now just…up.

Crap, bad idea. Half on his knees, he bent forward and threw up.

Dean was talking to him, a slightly frantic litany of reassurance and distraction. Sam tried to listen to it, tried to impress every syllable on his memory for later, but his head hurt too much and functional thought took too much energy. He just let himself believe his brother was there and took his comfort in that while his stomach turned itself inside out.

He swayed when he was done, at the tipping point of gravity between rocking back on his heels and splatting face-forward into the mess. This was usually where Dean grabbed and held him, but there was nothing except the slight chill in the air from Dean being nearby. His brother was still talking, voice strained, but there was only so much words could do.

Sam finally caught himself with a hand splayed in the dirt, then used it to push himself first to a crouch, then a stoop. A nearby bush helped him get more or less upright, although he wobbled like a sailor on shore leave and just barely conquered another flood of nausea.

"Sam."

"M'okay," he muttered. "Show me…where's th'car, Dean?"

"This way, Sammy."

He didn't really try to navigate, just squinted enough to avoid obvious obstacles and shamble after his brother. Dean looked back at him about every second step, and Sam didn't bother to reassure him he was still there, but he didn't mind the supervision, either. The rebellious teen in him had chafed at all the rules and limitations, but he'd swung too far in the opposite direction when he'd left for school, rejecting not just the rules but the rule-makers. It had taken time, even after returning with Dean to the road, to realize that he could refuse the rules while still loving those who'd set them. It was good to be looked after.

A sudden memory brought him up short. "Dad," Sam sputtered.

Dean turned back. "He's gone," he said shortly. "Man's obsessed with his hunt."

Sam reeled. Seriously? Even he hadn't thought John Winchester so heartless that he'd walk away from his sons when one was shot and the other was…disembodied.

Dean's face altered, and he darted forward a step. "Don't even think that, man—he didn't know. He couldn't…" He chewed his lip. "I tried to talk to him, and the hunter. They couldn't see or hear me. Guess you're it, Whoopi." He gave Sam a swift, sad smile.

Sam knuckled his eyes, wishing he could think without it feeling like he was trying to gather grains of sand in a whirlwind. "Where's'e? I could—" He half-turned, nearly losing his balance.

"Give it up, Sam," Dean said, unusually gentle. "He's long gone, and you can barely make it to the car. We're on our own on this one, man, sorry."

Sam stared at him with wet eyes. "You mean, 'm on my own."

Dean's jaw flexed. "No," he said calmly. "I don't."

Sam stared at him a moment, then took a breath. "Let's go find you."

Dean snorted and he went back to trailblazing. "You know how weird that sounds, right?"

"I had a vision, got shot…an' am following a ghost," Sam mumbled.

"Point."

At the car, Dean tried to argue with him that he was in no fit state to drive. Sam stuck the key right through him into the door. Dean cursed but got in, back seat driving from the front as Sam blearily headed back to that Iowa cornfield. Just eight hours, right? Dean had done more with, like, half his bones broken. Piece of—

"Sam!"

Sam snapped his head up, groaning low at the seismic shockwave in his head from the motion. "What?" he bit off, quickly swerving the car back into his lane and rubbing at his temple.

"You almost went off the road, dude. You need to take some pills and rest a few hours."

He didn't turn to look at his brother, knowing it would make his vision spin. "Did that already, 'member? This morning."

"That was before you got shot, doofus. You need to rest a little, Sam. Not gonna find me if you're roadkill."

Sam shook his head, closing his eyes briefly when that turned out to be another bad idea, then quickly opened them again when he realized driving blind wasn't so bright, either. Dean might not mind company in the afterlife, but he'd never speak to Sam again if he killed the Impala on the way there. "Talk to me," he finally said with effort, rubbing his eyes once before focusing tightly on the road.

"What?"

"Talk to me. Keep me focused. Tell me 'bout…hunting with Dad."

There was a pause. Then, "Yeah, okay."

Sam wished he could have concentrated more because these were stories he wanted to hear. Dean's voice did the trick, though, better than any classic rock band. The fog thinned when Dean's voice sharpened, throbbed less painfully when he laughed, and couldn't manage to sweep him away from that verbal anchor.

Sam barely realized it when they pulled up beside the cornfield, just turned off the engine at Dean's direction, then dropped his hands into his lap. With great effort, he turned to his brother, feeling the dried blood pull at his face. He hadn't even taken the time to clean up after the wound had finally stopped bleeding. "Dean?"

Dean was facing away from him, looking out the window. "I think I can feel it," he said absently.

This was important. Sam dug his nails into his palm to help concentrate. "What?"

"My body." Dean sounded surprised. "Think it's this way." He opened the door and climbed out, almost as if in a trance.

Sam braced himself, then opened his own door and more or less tumbled out, grasping onto the car frame to keep from toppling over. "Y'sure?"

"Yeah." Dean started walking without looking back, heading into the corn.

"Dean!" Sam swore softly when that didn't even slow his brother down. Great. He still had the weapons from before on him, and his pockets were full of tools of their trade. It would have to be enough. As fast as he could without losing his balance, Sam started forward after his brother.

Something was definitely drawing Dean, and as Sam followed, he tried not to think about all the bad things it could be. There was always a connection between spirit and body; he should've thought of that this morning, tried to get Dean to lead him back instead of jumping to the conclusion that he was dead and it was too late. Dean had seemed sure…but doubt still niggled at Sam's mind. Or maybe just hope. 'Cause if his brother was dead…

They walked until even those half-thoughts had faded, until his energy was gone and all he could think about was putting one foot in front of the other. They hadn't been going long, Sam was pretty sure, but every step bounced his bruised brain around the cage of his skull and drained his strength like an open tap. His whole body ached. When he stumbled, he barely caught himself on handfuls of cornstalks, and Sam finally caved.

"Dean, I need—"

But Dean wasn't in front of him anymore.

And the corn was glowing.

Sam shuffled forward a few steps.

No, it wasn't the corn. It was a blob of…something lying on the ground amidst the corn. Sam shoved the last stalks aside and pulled in a sharp breath.

It was Dean, lying curled up on his side. He was surrounded by a softly glowing white cloud, and if he wasn't dead, he sure looked like it.

_Energy suckers?_ Sam thought blearily. They'd discussed the possibility when they were trying to figure out what would kill with exhaustion, but energy vamps usually had some physical form and didn't hang out in cornfields as far as Sam could find. But then, he didn't know much about incorporeal energy beings, either, besides spirits and demons. How did you even kill something that wasn't solid? Maybe Bobby had a ritual, but Dean…

Wait. A sucker wouldn't still be there if its prey was drained dry. Dean couldn't be gone yet.

Sam straightened. Dean was still _alive. _But he wouldn't be for long without help, and damned if Sam was going to let him down again.

He warily inched forward, then reached out a finger. Touching the creature was a risk, but he had to get more information.

His fingertip just grazed the glowing surface when a wave of lassitude passed through him, nearly knocking him off his feet. Sam stumbled back, caught himself, and stared at the creature in amazement. Energy sucker was right. No wonder it had killed a little boy in two days.

Dean was several times bigger, though, and it hadn't even been forty-eight hours. Maybe…

Sam dug through his pockets.

Cleansing herbs had no effect. The being's form shied away from the iron blade, but just re-formed when it was gone. Sam wobbled, caught himself, then pulled out the salt.

A pinch made the thing shrivel and pull away again, just as it had from the iron. Thank God; now they were getting somewhere.

Sam laid out a careful circle around the creature. Then he took out his water bottle and dumped the rest of the salt into it, swished it around. Taking a deep breath, he began splashing Dean and the creature with the solution.

The thing shrieked. It pulled away from Dean like taffy, recoiling from the edges of the circle as it ran into them. It bulged and stretched, trying to find an escape, Dean still motionless and apparently unaffected beneath it.

Sam stonily continued sprinkling it, making sure every last bit of the circle was wet with salt water.

The white cloud pulsed, turning grey, then black. Then with a greasy shiver, it popped and was gone.

Sam dropped to his knees. "Dean?" His voice was hoarse and rusty.

He tried to tell himself that was why Dean didn't respond.

Sam went down to all fours and crawled a little closer. Dean was almost fetal, and his face was bone-white. It made his freckles stand out, and he looked so young, Sam almost felt like it was five years earlier. "Dean," he tried again, reaching out a shaky hand to poke at his brother's shoulder, then settle on his neck for a pulse.

It _lub-lubbed_ sluggishly but steadily against his fingers.

Sam puffed out air and maybe a sob, crawling in even closer. There was no way on earth he was getting Dean back to the car any time soon, but that was okay. They'd be okay now.

He'd just managed to lift Dean's head up to rest on his thigh, his arm lying across his brother's shoulders, when Dean finally stirred. His lips parted a few times before they managed a bare whisper.

"Sam?"

"I'm here," he parroted his brother from mere hours before, only this time he could press Dean's shoulder tighter, sense the chill of his body fade into living warmth, and feel the weight of him on Sam's leg. Dean's breath brushed Sam's fingers, and leather squeaked under his arm. "It's fine."

It was dawn again before he left the cornfield, but this time it wasn't alone.

00000

He drifted in languid half-sleep for a while before lazily opening his eyes to take stock of the world. He was so tired, his body felt like it was tied down, but Dean Winchester always liked to keep track of his environment.

Like the familiar motel room, heater chugging away quietly in one corner, shades pulled against sunshine…and a red-eyed, stoop-shouldered, bandaged brother poured into the chair beside his bed, watching Dean gravely. At least it looked like he'd gotten the tears over with already.

"D'you sleep?" Even his tongue felt tired, the words more slushy than Dean had intended.

"A little," Sam lied, badly. "Y'all right?"

Dean pushed himself up with a groan, dropping his feet down onto the rug. The room rocked a little but then steadied. He felt like he could fall back onto his side and sleep for another two days, but it wasn't the utter depletion he could vaguely remember from before. "Feels like 'm moving through cement. You?"

Sam scoffed mirthlessly. "Head's killing me."

Dean reached out. "Lemme see."

"'M all right, Dean." Sam craned away from him. "S'just a little concussion."

Right, _just. _"Suck it up, dude," Dean said mildly. "I couldn't do it before, but you're not getting out of it this time."

That seemed to drain the fight from Sam. He sat meekly while Dean peeled back the gauze square taped to his head and examined the gash.

"You take something for this?"

"Not yet," Sam whispered. He sounded like he was afraid his head would fall off from anything louder.

Dean pushed to his feet and shuffled over to the kit sitting open on the table. He poured out two extra-strength painkillers, the one that would put even insomniac-Sam to sleep, then grabbed the half-empty water bottle he'd left on the table a lifetime of two days before. Unscrewing the cap was almost beyond him, but he finally managed to shove everything at Sam and watched carefully as the meds went down.

"Okay, 'm gonna get some sleep, and I can't with you sitting there staring at me, dude, so time for bed."

"Dean…" It was the same token whine that had demanded five more minutes since before he could even tell time.

Dean didn't even bother arguing. He guided Sam drop over onto the bed and lifted his legs with a groan, trying not to pant from the effort. This time he could pull the blankets up himself, though, and when Sam's hand clamped down on them, Dean slid his thumb under the tips of the two nearest fingers. "I'm here, Sam." He squeezed lightly, grateful he could do it. "I'm here."

Sam swallowed, twisting those freakishly long fingers around somehow to curl over Dean's. Eventually Sam took a deep breath, and the pressure eased as he nodded.

Dean yawned and nodded back. "Well, right there," he amended, pointing to his bed. "Okay?"

Sam rolled over on his side, blinking heavily at the other bed.

Dean tumbled into it, yawning again as he managed to get more or less under the covers and lay facing Sam. "So. That was weird, right?"

"Yeah," Sam slurred. But he didn't seem any more anxious to go to sleep than Dean did.

"OBE?" An out-of-body experience seemed to be the only explanation.

"Guess so." And that was it from the Master of Minutiae. No conjecture why Dean had gone spiritwalking, or why Sam had been the only one to see him.

Maybe it didn't really matter.

Sam's eyes fluttered shut and he pried them open again with obvious effort.

Dean crooked a smile at him. "Go to sleep, dude. You earned it."

Sam stared at him a moment, eyes full of emotion before they finally closed and stayed that way.

Dean waited until his respirations were long and even before muttering "Cornball" under his breath and following Sam under.

**The End**


End file.
